


Monsters Are Always Hungry (The Broken Down Remix)

by coricomile



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s01e06 Countrycide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 21:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4236462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto shrugs him off when they reach his flat, fumbling for his keys. His fingers are numb, one of them sprained, but he won’t let Jack do this as well. He can unlock his own bloody door, can tuck himself into his own bed. He doesn’t want or <i>need</i> Jack’s help.</p>
<p>He never has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monsters Are Always Hungry (The Broken Down Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tragedy Bound](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26044) by [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic). 
  * In response to a prompt by [geckoholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic) in the [remixmadness2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixmadness2015) collection. 



Everything hurts. His chest, his arms, his legs. His _face_. It feels swollen, misshapen, his lips tingling from the pills Owen had given him earlier. All he wants to do is sleep, but Jack is at his heels, touching him, trying to play crutch, and rage is boiling up in Ianto’s chest.

Since Lisa- and that still makes his insides curl up, before and after times like Christ- Jack’s been treating him like a child. Pointedly asking him how he’s doing, bringing him treats when he does the most mundane of tasks. 

It’s too little, too late. The damage has been done.

Ianto crashes into the wall, pain splintering up his damaged ribs. Nothing’s broken, Owen assured him over and over again, but it feels like each bone is stabbing into his lungs, stealing his breath away. Jack wraps an arm around Ianto’s waist, pulling him up. Ianto doesn’t fight him again. The stairs are almost too much to handle even with the support.

He hates himself, now in this moment. Since he was a child, he’d been able to take care of himself. Necessity begets results, and no one is more driven than he is. Relying on Jack- _Jack_ of all people- for something as simple as walking is humiliating.

Ianto shrugs him off when they reach his flat, fumbling for his keys. His fingers are numb, one of them sprained, but he won’t let Jack do this as well. He can unlock his own bloody door, can tuck himself into his own bed. He doesn’t want or _need_ Jack’s help.

He never has.

Jack follows him in, Ianto too slow to shut the door on him, and loiters in the living room. He stares at the couch, at the rumpled blanket still thrown over the back, and Ianto turns away from him. He knows what Jack’s thinking about. He doesn’t care.

Slowly, he makes his way to the bathroom, hand against the wall like an invalid. Something pings in his hip, the joint popping in and out of place, and he almost collapses. If he thinks too hard, he can feel the baseball bat slamming into him, over and over again.

He had been prepared to die to save Tosh. He had been prepared to die and go where Lisa had. 

It takes him forever to undress. He sits on the closed toilet as he undoes the buttons of his shirt, ripping at a few when they refuse to come out. It smells like blood, like dirt and death and _sickness_. He throws it across the room, ignoring the ache in his ribs, and leans back against the toilet tank to get at his fly.

He can’t get the zipper. It’s stuck, dirt or dried blood clogging up the teeth. He keeps pulling and pulling, tears welling up as it _stays stuck_. He will not cry. He’s a grown man. _He will not cry._

Eventually, he cuts his jeans off, struggling with the dulled pair of scissors when they reach the waistband. He throws those across the room, too, satisfied with the sound of metal against drywall. 

He climbs into the shower, groaning when he has to bend to turn on the taps. The water comes out too hot, but he lets it stay that way. He’d rather burn everything off, grow new skin, and start fresh. _Tabula rasa_. A clean slate.

When he closes his eyes, he can see their faces. Leering, human, vicious. He can see the muscles and tendons and skin cut into neat chunks in the refrigerator, waiting to be eaten. They fight so hard every day to keep the earth safe from threats, but how can they do that when the problem starts at home?

The television turns on in the living room. Jack’s making himself comfortable. He always does, whether Ianto wants him to or not. If he weren’t so angry, if he didn’t _hurt_ so much, he might feel bad for leading Jack on this chase. He might feel bad for manipulating him.

There were moments, fast, frantic moments, that Ianto let himself forget the mission. He let himself fall into Jack’s hands and mouth and body, let himself close his eyes and forget the danger. It could have been nice, could have been something, if it weren’t for the body in the basement and the endless strategies in his head. 

There’s no reason to continue the farce. There was no reason to continue it while he was on suspension, but any distraction was a good distraction. He’ll stop it soon. Move into his new, burnt to the ashes life.

He bends to shut the taps off and his foot slides on the damp porcelain. He grabs blindly for anything to hold him up, anything to keep him from crashing to the ground, and his fingers wrap around the shower head. For a breathless moment, he thinks it’ll be fine, and then the head pulls from the wall and goes down with him.

Pain. So much pain. He feels himself shouting but can’t hear it over the blood rushing in his ears. His body is one screaming nerve and he cannot move.

Jack bursts through the door, his eyes wild. Ianto closes his eyes, wet and naked and vulnerable like a child. _He will not cry._ Jack helps him out of the tub, dries him off, and wraps an arm around his waist again. Ianto doesn’t fight him. He can’t. 

The mattress is soft under him as Jack lays him down, the sheets cool as Jack pulls them up over Ianto’s damp, naked body. Ianto takes the pills Jack hands him and hopes he doesn’t wake up. He doesn’t want a new life. He wants none at all.

Jack settles in the chair next to the bed, his coat around him like a cape. Ianto wants to be left alone with his humiliation, left alone to hurt himself more, but Jack won’t leave. Ianto knows he won’t. He opens his mouth, ready to give one last pathetic plea, but lets it die. He’ll hold onto that one last scrap of dignity until it’s ripped from his hands.

As he drifts in a pained, dizzy haze, he feels the ghost of Jack’s fingers in his hair, smoothing it away from his face. He closes his eyes tighter. 

_He will not cry._


End file.
